The empress in the mean time had returned to her rooms, sad and absorbed in her reflections. She had dismissed her ladies of honor; only her mistress of ceremonies, Madame de RÉmusat, was still with her, and her maids were in the adjoining room to await her orders until she retired.

No sooner had Josephine reached her room than she sat down slowly and abstractedly, and, throwing back her head, fixed her eyes on the ceiling. An expression of profound grief was visible in her features, and darkened the shade with which age was veiling her countenance. When smiling, Josephine was still a graceful and fascinating woman, but when melancholy it was but too plainly to be seen that her charms were fading, and neither the flattering rouge nor the skill of the artist could conceal this fact.

Josephine's brow was now often clouded, and her youthful beauty was fast losing its charms. Gloomy forebodings were constantly passing over her heart; she felt that she was standing as on the brink of a precipice, and that the days of her happiness were numbered. She awoke every morning in terror, for before the evening she might be cast into an abyss of sorrow—removed from the Tuileries and the side of her husband—replaced by another, a younger woman, the daughter of an ancient sovereign house, who was to become the wife of Napoleon and the mother of his sons. Josephine knew that the brothers and sisters of the emperor were constantly importuning him to disown his childless wife, and to secure his throne and dynasty, as well as their own, by choosing another consort giving an heir to his crown. She knew that Talleyrand was representing this to him daily as a political necessity, without which his empire and his greatness would be endangered. She knew also that Napoleon no longer, as formerly, closed his ears against these insinuations, but, eagerly listening, held them in serious consideration.

Josephine was aware of all this, and sat in her room a prey to well-grounded suspicion and sorrowful presentiments.

Madame de RÉmusat looked at her awhile, sighing and in silence; she now softly approached the empress, and, taking her hand, said in an affectionate voice, "Your majesty ought to retire! You need sleep; it is long past midnight, and your eyes are weary."

"Not from waking—from weeping, my dear RÉmusat," said the empress, pressing the hand of her confidante. "But you are right, I will retire. In sleep we forget our grief. RÉmusat, in my dreams I always see Napoleon as affectionate, as loving as he ever was—in my dreams he loves me still and looks at me, not with the stern eyes of the emperor, but of a tender husband. When I awake, RÉmusat, his fine face still before my mind, and remember that his love is now gone and lost forever—oh, then a sword seems to pierce my heart, and I shed scalding tears in spite of myself! And yet I will retire. He commanded me, and I will obey."

"How discouraged your majesty is again to-day!" said Madame de RÉmusat, sighing. "Still it seems to me there is less cause than ever. The emperor was more cordial and affectionate than usual. He was evidently abstracted, and occupied with important plans, and yet he returned; his expression was unusually gentle, and his voice trembled when he bade farewell to your majesty."

"But why did he bid me farewell?" exclaimed the empress. "This is what fills me with anxiety. Heretofore he only said to me, 'Good-night!' and, 'we shall meet again to-morrow, Josephine!' But to-day he said. 'Farewell, and au revoir!' RÉmusat, there was a hidden meaning in these words. Something unusual is to happen, for the emperor never took leave of me in this manner. 'Au revoir!' You never say that to one whom you meet again in the morning. It means assuredly something! But you are right—I need repose, for my limbs are trembling, and my head is burning, as if I had fever! Call my maids!"

Josephine sighed deeply, and rose to be undressed. She was so absorbed in her reflections that she, who always addressed a pleasant word to her servants, did not apparently notice their presence. In silence she allowed her jewels to be removed, which Madame de RÉmusat carefully put away into their caskets; in silence she suffered herself to be divested of her blue satin dress, embroidered with silver, and her white satin underskirt, without observing that her first maid was absent. When her wrapper was brought by the second maid, she noticed that the first was not present.

"Where is Dufour?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"Your majesty, she has just been called out to attend to something urgently required by his majesty the emperor," said the second maid, approaching the empress.

But Josephine pushed her back. "To attend to something urgently required by the emperor?" she asked, breathlessly. "What does that mean? Ah, there is Dufour! What could have detained her?" And she rushed toward her and grasped her hand.

"Dufour, where have you been? What is the matter?"

"Your majesty, Constant wished to see me. I beg pardon for coming so late, but it was something very urgent."

"Urgent! There is the same word again," exclaimed Josephine. "What was it that was 'urgent?'"

"Your majesty, M. Constant wanted the golden travelling-case of the emperor, which your majesty showed to the jeweller to-day. As it was in my keeping, he applied to me for it."

"Well, could he not wait until to-morrow?" asked the empress.

"No, your majesty, for the emperor needs the travelling-case, and at once."

Josephine uttered a cry. "He is about to depart! Oh, I feel he is going to leave me!" she exclaimed, almost beside herself. And without reflecting and hesitating, regardless of the fact that she was undressed, her shoulders bare, and her feet incased in small slippers of crimson velvet—forgetful of every thing but the distracting thought that the emperor was leaving her, without even a farewell, she ran across the room toward the door.

Vainly did Madame de RÉmusat try to detain her. Josephine pushed her aside, opened the door, and ran out. Breathless, bathed in tears, her dishevelled locks streaming in the air, she hastened through the rooms and magnificent halls in which she was accustomed to appear in a gorgeous toilet, and receive the homage of princes. On crossing the threshold of the first reception-room she lost one of her slippers; but this modern Atalanta did not know it as she rushed along the corridor and down the stairs. Having reached the palace-yard, she found that she was not mistaken—there stood the emperor's travelling-carriage. Roustan and Constant were waiting in front of it, but she passed them before they knew what had happened. Trembling and weeping, she sat down in the carriage.

The emperor at that moment entered the palace-yard, while the two servants were still standing near, speechless, and as if paralyzed with terror. He took no notice of them, and ascending the steps of the carriage beheld the strange white figure within.

"What is that?" exclaimed the emperor, standing still. "Who is there?"

"It is I," exclaimed the empress, in a suppliant voice. "I, Josephine! You wished to depart again without me, Bonaparte; but I will not suffer you; I will cling to you! I cannot leave you!"

She threw her arms around his neck, but Napoleon pushed her back. "You are a fool, Josephine!" he said, angrily. "This is childish; you ridiculously retard my departure. I do not wish to hear any more! Be kind enough to leave the carriage! It is necessary that I set out immediately."

"But, Bonaparte, you cannot be in earnest," cried Josephine, sobbing aloud. "Have mercy on me! Do not drive me from you! I tell you, you must use violence to remove me! Oh, have pity on me—on my poor, painful heart, and let me go along with you! Remember that you promised me the other day that I should accompany you on your next journey. Oh, Bonaparte, keep your word! Keep your word only this time! Have pity on me, and let me accompany you!" She covered his lips and cheeks with her kisses and tears. Napoleon's heart seemed to be softened, for he involuntarily raised his arms and wound them around Josephine's neck. "How cold you are!" he exclaimed. "And your shoulders are bare! What does this mean?"

"It means," said the empress, half laughing, half weeping, "that I was just about retiring when—when I heard the carriage drive up to the door. My heart told me that you intended to leave me, and that I would not have time to dress if I wished to see you, and therefore I came at once."

"And indeed you were right; if you had come a minute later, I would certainly have been gone."

The emperor entered the carriage, closed the door, and shouted in a powerful voice out of the window: "Have every thing the empress needs for her toilet sent to the first station, that she may find it on her arrival. Order the mistress of ceremonies to set out immediately with her majesty's ladies of honor. They must be at Strasburg on the 18th. Forward!"

Josephine uttered a joyous cry, and sat down on the emperor's knees, pressing his head with her arms against her bosom. He laughed, and did not resist her. Roustan and Constant ascended, and the carriage started.

"Bonaparte, thanks! a thousand thanks!" whispered the empress. "Never shall I forget this hour, for it proves to me that you still love your poor Josephine, or that at least you pity her!"

"Oh, you know full well, traitress, that I cannot withstand your tears," said Napoleon, half angrily, half smilingly. "But you are almost naked!"

"Yes, I am naked, as it behooves a beggar-woman who begs for love at the palace-gate," said the empress, smiling. "I hope, my emperor and lord will give me something to cover my nakedness."

"Here is what you want, you impulsive beggar!" exclaimed Napoleon, throwing the sable robe, which the Emperor Alexander had presented to him, over her shoulders, and wrapping it carefully around her.

"Accept my thanks!" exclaimed Josephine, laughing; "I will wear it as a token of your kindness."

"You will not," quickly replied Napoleon. "I merely lend it to you until our arrival at the next station, where, I hope, we shall meet a courier with your wardrobe."

"But he will not be able to overtake us there, Bonaparte, and you will have to leave me the robe for some time yet."

"No; he will travel faster on horseback than we in our carriage. I would have no objection to the robe myself, for the night is cold!"

"It is cold; come, I will let you have part of it," wrapping it around the emperor, and clinging closely to him. Napoleon laughed, and winding his arms around the slender waist of Josephine, pressed her to his breast. She laid her wearied head silently on his shoulder. The carriage continued the journey without interruption, and, exhausted by her previous excitement, she closed her eyes and slept.

Suddenly the voice of the emperor aroused her. They had reached the first station; it was already daylight. The municipal officers of the small town were standing in front of the post-office to present their respects. A man, mounted on a horse covered with foam, was near them. It was the courier who had brought the wardrobe of the empress.

"There is your luggage," said the emperor, pointing smilingly at a small leather trunk which had been placed on the back seat. "The empress has set out as a travelling adventurer!"

"Yes, you are right," exclaimed Josephine. "It is just like a fairy-story. Some poor, disowned princess is met on her journey by a handsome son of a king, who takes her in his arms, gives her magnificent dresses, and marries her. I thank you, my friend, and now I will attend to my toilet."

"I hope not here in the carriage?" asked Napoleon, in surprise.

"We shall have the trunk carried into the house; I believe the postmaster has a room where you can dress, and a servant-girl who can assist you."

"But, Bonaparte," exclaimed Josephine, "do you not see that that is impossible? It is daylight; is, then, the carriage to open and the empress to alight with one slipper on her feet, to be triumphantly conducted into the house? Ah, my friend, all Europe would smile at the idyllic empress who accompanied her husband on his journey in such a dishabille."

"It is true," said Napoleon, moodily, "it would be a fine anecdote for the so-called legitimate princes, and they would proudly laugh at the violation of the dehors committed by imperial upstarts. As though it were so difficult to learn the ridiculous rules of their etiquette, if one should deem it worth while!"

Josephine gently patted the emperor's forehead with her white hand. "No clouds must darken my morning sun," she said, "for they would foretell a gloomy day. I wish you could transform yourself into my maid."

"What!" exclaimed the emperor, laughing. "Transform myself into your maid?"

"And why not, Bonaparte?" asked Josephine. "Did not your brother, the great Jove, transform himself into an ox for the sake of Europa? The carriage is moving again! Draw the curtains, and then, my dear maid, we shall commence dressing." She hastily opened the small travelling-trunk, which had carefully been filled with every thing required for her toilet—small velvet gaiters, a comfortable velvet cloak, one of her large cashmere shawls, and a beautiful red satin dress with lace trimmings.

"You will have but little trouble with me," said the empress, busily examining the contents of the trunk. "Dear Madame RÉmusat has arranged every thing as judiciously as possible, and forgotten nothing. There are warm gloves, embroidered handkerchiefs—in short, all I need. Ah! there is but one thing she has forgotten."

"Well, and what is that?"

"It is a mirror. Bonaparte, you must be my mirror to-day. But come now, my dear maid! enter upon your duties. In the first place, assist me in putting on my gaiters."

"What admirable ones they are!" said the emperor. "Are these tiny things really large enough for your feet?"

"Yes. Did you forget that your Josephine has the smallest and prettiest foot in all France? Formerly, when you were not the all-powerful Napoleon, but the brave and illustrious General Bonaparte, you knew it. Ah, I wish you were still General Bonaparte, and we lived at our small house in the Rue Chantereine!"

"Indeed, I am glad that I am no longer there," said Napoleon. "It seems to me General Bonaparte did not forfeit his glory; he only changed his title and position. That of an emperor is not so bad, and the Tuileries a very pleasant residence. But, Josephine, let me see whether this fairy-shoe is really large enough for human foot!"

"Bonaparte, envy and jealousy prompt you to say so," said Josephine, laughing. "You cannot comprehend how any foot could be even smaller than yours. But just take into consideration that you are the great Bonaparte, and that I am but poor little Josephine—the insignificant creature that derives only from you light and life. Bonaparte, you have the largest foot that man ever had."

"What! I have the largest foot?" exclaimed Napoleon, in surprise. "Why, I have always been told that my foot was very small."

"Oh, that was a mistake," said Josephine, gravely, "for how would it otherwise be possible for you to trample down the whole of Europe as you are doing?"

Napoleon laughed. "Very good," he said, "you are right; I have put my foot on the neck of Europe, and shall crush all who resist me!"

"Bonaparte," exclaimed Josephine, menacingly, "no politics now, no threatening imperial face! Remember that, at the present moment, you are nothing but my maid. There is my foot! Put on my gaiter, and see whether it is large enough!"

Napoleon at once obeyed, his wife's toilet commenced, and the first day of their journey passed in laughter and affectionate chatting. The empress had not enjoyed so happy a day for years. All cares and apprehensions were forgotten. What did light-hearted Josephine care for the future?

But, alas! the second day was different. The smiles of the unfortunate woman met with no reply. The emperor was taciturn and gloomy. Wrapped in his sable robe, he was leaning in a corner of the carriage, and made only stern and brief answers to Josephine's questions. The heart and countenance of the empress grew heavy and anxious.

When they arrived at Strasburg on the evening of the fourth day, each of them sat silent—the empress with tearful eye; the emperor frowning and stern. Napoleon offered his arm to his consort, and conducted her into the palace. "Good-night, Josephine," he said, standing still at the entrance of the rooms destined for her, "good-night!"

"You will not take supper with me?" asked the empress in a low, imploring voice.

"No, I have business to attend to. Good-night!" And he walked away without saluting or even looking at her. Josephine went into her rooms. She refused to partake of refreshment, and avoided the necessity of admitting the officials, who wished to pay their respects to her, by sending them word that she was too fatigued to receive any one. Alone she could weep without being disturbed.

At an unusually early hour on the following morning Napoleon entered her room. Josephine was just about to dress, assisted by her Parisian maids. He motioned them to withdraw, and then commenced pacing the room in his usual manner, when excited.

"Napoleon," said Josephine, in a tremulous voice, "you have come with bad news. My heart tells me so, and I read it on your gloomy brow. Speak, and tell me every thing at once. I am prepared for it."

"Well, then, I must say," replied Napoleon, vehemently,—"you cannot, Josephine, accompany me farther. We must part this hour. I yielded to your wishes in spite of myself, but only thus far! A new campaign is about to begin; days of battles, troubles, and fatigues, are awaiting me. You must not and cannot share them. You must remain here."

Josephine cast a melancholy look on him. "But when you have conquered, when you have made again your triumphant entry into Vienna, will you then call me, Napoleon? Shall I then share your triumphs as I used to do? Bonaparte, do not now make an evasive reply! Tell me the truth, for I can bear it. Tell me, when the fortune of war has favored you—when you have vanquished Austria, as you have hitherto every other enemy—will you then call me to you? The truth, my friend, the truth!"

"Very well, I will tell you the truth," exclaimed Napoleon, after a brief hesitation. "No, Josephine—I will not. You can share my triumphs no more!"

Josephine uttered a cry, and her eyes filled with tears. "I am doomed, then," she said, "and what FouchÉ told me was true!"

"What did he tell you?" asked the emperor, hastily.

"He told me to prepare for a heavy blow—that you, Napoleon, had secretly applied to the Emperor Alexander for the hand of his sister, and that only the resistance of the dowager prevented you from accomplishing your purpose."

"Yes," exclaimed Napoleon, moodily, and, as if absent-minded, "yes, the proud empress-dowager hates me, and hastened to marry her daughter to a petty German prince rather than let her become the consort of the Emperor of the French.[44] Well, no matter! other princes have daughters, too, and one of them will assuredly be only too happy to become my wife!"

"Napoleon, and you dare tell me so?" exclaimed Josephine, reproachfully. "You admit, then, that you are about to disown me?"

The emperor started. "Pardon me, Josephine," he said, in confusion, "I was absent-minded, I—"

"Yes, you were," interrupted the empress, "and while so, you betrayed your thoughts. It is true, then! Cruel man! You have forgotten every thing, and the whole past has been blotted out. You can seriously think of parting with me, your best friend?"

"No, not now, Josephine," exclaimed Napoleon. "You have nothing to fear. I shall not enter Germany as a wooer, but as a soldier, and I do not desire to seek myrtle-crowns, but laurels!"

"But, my husband, when you have gained fresh laurels and new territories with the blood of your soldiers, then, I suppose, Josephine is to be sacrificed?"

Napoleon did not reply. He paced the room slowly and with a bowed head. Standing still, he looked with sad eyes in his consort's tearful face.

"Josephine," he said, in a grave voice, "you have a noble heart, and it will bear the truth. Yes, there may be a day when we shall have to part, although I love you, and I know well that you are the only faithful friend on whom I can rely! Judge, therefore, what pangs it will cost me when obliged to come to the terrible resolution to separate from you, my guardian angel! But I belong to my people—I belong to my glory! My power has assumed such gigantic proportions that I must support it with foundations that cannot be overthrown. The Emperor Napoleon must have a successor; if you had given birth to one, I should never have parted from you. Now all hope is gone, and I shall, perhaps, be compelled one day to look for a consort among the daughters of kings. I really do not wish to do so, but my duty to my people makes it imperative."

"No, not your duty, but your ambition!" cried Josephine, with streaming eyes. "You have sacrificed every thing for that—your tranquillity, your conscience, the blood of your soldiers, and now your wife!"

"Yes, it is as you say, Josephine," exclaimed Napoleon; "it is my ambition that separates me from you, and compels me to part with her who has been my glory and my life for sixteen years! It is ambition that points its iron arm at my imperial crown, and commands me to look for another empress, that I and my son may enter the ranks of legitimate princes. I have formed vast plans; I shall soon effect new convulsions: I shall vanquish all my enemies, and Europe will have to recognize me as her master. But when nothing remains to wish for—when I have so ascended as to leave no heights above me, then I shall think of securing the happiness and peace of my people and of my empire. To do so, I am in need of a direct heir. For myself, I ask and wish for nothing; but my glory belongs to France. After my death my contemporaries will say of me, 'He was the only one who could strive for universal good, while his individual wishes had been gratified; others thought only of themselves—Bonaparte's wishes and deeds were for his country. There was one thing that was dear to him personally, and that was his wife! But the welfare of his people requiring it, he sacrificed this beloved wife to their interests.'"

"Words!" exclaimed Josephine. "You are vainly trying to conceal your innermost thoughts from me. I know you, Bonaparte, and can read your soul! You wish to connect yourself with the foremost sovereign houses of Europe, because such a union will flatter your pride and your insatiable ambition. When you are the son-in-law of an emperor or a king, you will believe that you are at liberty to do every thing with impunity. You will deem yourself a demi-god, and, accompanied by your victorious legions, you will march to the conquest of the whole world. But that will not be your destiny. You believe you can enslave the nations. Beware lest they one day awake, break their chains, and take a terrible revenge on the tyrant whom they allowed so long to oppress them! Seduced by your illusive ambition, you will disown Josephine? Infatuated man! you will perceive too late that you walk near a volcano. Oh, Bonaparte, I tremble and weep for you! Remember that you have often called me your guardian angel. Believe me, when you disown me, you disown your good fortune. It will forsake the faithless man, and your star will sink in an eternal night! That is what wounds my heart, and drives me to despair. You will be alone in the midst of traitors and false friends. When Josephine is with you no more, no one will have good intentions toward you. No one will dare tell you the truth, when you lose your best friend. Falsehood will flatter you, but only to lead you to the verge of the precipice!" The empress, with quivering limbs and pale features, sank on a chair, and covered her face.

A long pause ensued. Napoleon gloomily continued walking the room. At last he approached Josephine, and gently laid his hand on her shoulder. "Do not weep," he said, imploringly. "We have once more allowed phantoms to frighten us, and quarrelled about things that belong to the future. You are still my wife, and who knows whether you will not always remain mine? Who knows whether you will not soon be my widow? I am about to enter into another war, and it will be a desperate, obstinate struggle, in which old Austria will try to wrest the palm of victory from young France. Victory will perch on my banners. I have no doubt of that, but who knows whether I shall not have to pay for it with my blood! for I must not spare myself—I shall always be at the head of my troops, and, like my private soldiers, with them bare my own breast to the hail of bullets. In so decisive a struggle as will take place now, the emperor will be nothing but a soldier, and do his duty."

"Oh, Bonaparte!" cried Josephine, rising in dismay and clinging to him, "oh, have mercy on my heart! Do not rashly expose yourself to the accidents of battle! Remember that the fate of millions depends on your life! Remember that I should die if an accident befall you! Oh, my dearest husband, be kind and generous—spare yourself, and spare my love!"

"Then you love me in spite of your gloomy forebodings?" asked Napoleon, with a gentle smile. "Oh, I know my Josephine is my most faithful and best friend, and whatever may happen, her heart will always be mine. Let this be our farewell, Josephine! I must go; I must depart this very hour. To-morrow I join my army, and my cannon will soon announce to Germany that the victor of Austerlitz and Jena is demonstrating his right to rule, and at his own pleasure to destroy or create kingdoms."